


Before The Beginning

by phlintandsteel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is a badass, Aziraphale-as-Jehoel, Crowley questions, Crowley-as-Raphael, M/M, Other, but it all works out, falling, from beginning to end and back again, ineffable husbands, playing fast and loose with angelic mythology here, the ineffable plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 15:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19507780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlintandsteel/pseuds/phlintandsteel
Summary: "Do you think of me, while you're out building stars?"A flutter of wings.A whisper in the spaces between their atoms.Red hair lit up like its own halo, like Raphael is twice as holy, twice as important as any other angel.And he is...He is."Every moment, angel."





	Before The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all are up on your good omens meta, lol. All you really NEED to know though is that Aziraphale basically means “Also-Raphael”, that’s like a major plot point, so, yeah...
> 
> Enjoy!

The moment after the Heavens are created, they are drawn to each other. From the dawn of existence. Time hasn’t been invented yet, so there’s nothing to mark the passage. There is only brushing against their brethren, light interweaving as they rejoice.

When She gives them corporations, it makes many out of one, and secretly, not all are happy with it. 

Raphael misses belonging. But when _fingers_ run through his hair, marveling at the color, at the curl, he _recognizes._

“Oh. It’s you.”

A nod. 

“Your hair is the color of flames.”

“Yours is the color of starlight.”

They explore their new forms, tracing each other with fingertips, then palms, then pressing close in a snug tangle of limbs.

If they share enough skin, they can _feel_ each other again.

(The other angles do not feel like they do.) 

<//>

She gives them jobs, right after She creates time.

Something to pass it. 

<//>

They cling close, spirits mixing and dipping into each other along the places where their skin touches.

<//>

“This nebula is truly one of our most beautiful projects to date... Did She give you the suggestion for the color?”

“No. It’s the color of Jehoel’s eyes.”

Gabriel blinks, stares at him too long.

“But since She made Jehoel, I suppose in the end, it actually _was_ Her idea...”

The corporation that is Gabriel relaxes.

It is the first time that Raphael _wonders._

(The _questioning_ comes later.)

<//>

“I miss you when you’re off creating constellations... It’s... _cold_ without you.”

“You know my hair isn’t actually made of fire, right? Isn’t that supposed to be your element anyway?” Raphael teases, pressing his forearms all along Jehoel’s back, crisscrossed in between his wings, holding him close.

(Curse these corporations that keep them apart.)

“I meant _inside,”_ Jehoel admonishes, pressing his cheek more firmly against Raphael’s neck, baring his soul to him as best as he can. 

“Shhh, I’m here now, angel,” Raphael squeezes him tight.

<//>

(Isn’t it blasphemy, for Her Grace to not be enough?)

<//>

"Do you think of me, while you're out building stars?"

A flutter of wings.

A whisper in the spaces between their atoms.

Red hair lit up like its own halo, like Raphael is twice as holy, twice as important as any other angel. 

And he is...

He _is._

"Every moment, angel."

<//>

“If the forms of our existence can change, cannot the names attached to them as well?” Jehoel asks.

Raphael blinks at him. 

“Why do you call me ‘angel’?” Jehoel frames Raphael’s face with his hands. 

Their legs are twined together, stomachs pressed close.

They only breathe to feel the rise and fall of each other’s chests.

“Because…”

(Because he’s not _Jehoel._ He’s _not._ We should be _the same,_ but admitting it feels too much like _a reprimand._ )

“Because ‘Jehoel’ has never felt quite right, has it? Not to you, and not to me,” Jehoel admits, his eyes tracing the thoughtful curve of Raphael’s brow.

“What do you want to be called, then? What feels right?” Raphael asks, shifting to rub a thumb over the back of the hand cupping his face. 

“In my spirit? ...I would be called _Raphael,”_ Jehoel whispers. 

“We can’t _both_ be Raphael,” he reminds him, voice shaking as he _yearns._

(Yearns for when the two of them were made of the same atoms, the same light.) 

“Then I shall be _Aziraphale,_ instead.”

Raphael’s soul sings as a joyful smile spreads over his face. He can feel the harmony it creates with Aziraphale’s, so close, right there under his skin. They both move to get as close as possible as quickly as they can, pressing against each other even more, willing the torrent of emotion to spill over into light, into the oneness that they lost. 

In their haste, Aziraphale’s smile bumps against Raphael’s. 

Oh. 

Neither of them thought the parts they used to communicate could be used to communicate _this._

“Aziraphale…”

Raphael presses their mouths together again.

The veil is lifted. 

Aziraphale surges forward, in corporation and in spirit, filling Raphael with a hurricane of suppressed longing. He’s swept aside in the torrent of it, gone. He isn’t just _himself_ anymore, _they’re them._

(He yields instantly.)

(Willingly.) 

It’s not the all consuming oneness of before, but it’s close. So close. 

“Oh, my clever Aziraphale…”

“Stop talking, my dear.”

<//>

They don’t talk to each other for a long time after that. Three nebulae and a galaxy’s worth. They have better things to do with their mouths once obligations are done.

<//>

(They should have talked.)

(Maybe Raphael wouldn’t have _questioned,_ if they had...)

(But maybe Aziraphale _would have_ where he hadn’t before...)

<//>

When She creates the humans, everything changes. 

Raphael can see why she adores them.

(But the other angels do not _feel_ for humans like She does.)

<//>

It takes the humans a much shorter amount of time to realize the intimacy of mouths on mouths than it did Raphael and Aziraphale.

<//>

(Why?)

(Why not?)

(Why us?)

(Why them?)

<//>

Raphael is on shift during The Betrayal. 

When Lucifer betrays Her, Gabriel bears witness against Raphael and his _questions._

Light cannot escape the strength of his grief when Raphael realizes that _questioning_ will be punished with _losing everything._

(At the center of a black hole is love.)

<//>

Good and evil.

Light and dark.

Up and down.

You and me.

All Her creations are double edged swords. 

(Be careful how much you want to know.)

<//>

It is supposed to be part of their punishment, that demons remember while angels do not. 

For Crawly though, it is only mercy. 

If his angel suffered without him as he did, well... Then he would have lost faith entirely, like the rest of his brethren.

(As it is, he's the one who’s lost both the most and the least.)

(He isn’t sure what Lucifer is on about, that prat never loved anyone but himself.)

<//>

The forces of Hell spend rather more than seven days trying to break in to the Garden. 

In the end, it is Crawly and Crawly alone who can slither through.

(Go up and make some trouble.)

He can feel it as he burrows, feel it in his bones, that the only reason he can pass through the barrier is because Aziraphale is on the other side. 

(But he keeps that to himself.)

<//>

When he stands in Aziraphale’s presence for the first time in an eon, he can tell his angel is... _diminished..._

(But still Aziraphale.)

( _Always_ Aziraphale.)

<//>

“You gave it away?!?”

<//>

(He _gave it away._ )

<//>

Aziraphale may be a Principality now, and Crawly may be a demon, but there’s still a strange sort of leftover resonance in their souls, drawing them to each other, only feeling truly at ease in each other’s company. 

<//>

“What? You can’t kill _kids!”_

Crawly can feel the vacillation in him, even if Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, and he clings to it. 

(It feels like hope.)

<//>

“What was it that he said that got everyone so upset?”

“Be _kind_ to each other.”

“Oh, yes, that’ll do it...”

(There are too many conflicting emotions in him to parse each one out.)

(So he just watches on in horror.)

<//>

Crowley gets called back down below, where _all Hell_ has broken loose. 

Because the keys have been taken.

Lucifer’s lost his greatest leverage in his self proclaimed war against Her, which was the human souls he’d been hoarding down there. 

_Everyone_ has to report back for some sort of giant strategy meeting. 

(Which is ridiculous, because they’re all just doing as they’re told.) 

It’s a pain and a mountain of paperwork and a swearing of allegiance to a new plan and all Crowley wants to do is run his fingers through hair like strands of starlight again. 

(He remembers the stars.)

(He’d trade them all to feel the touch of Aziraphale’s skin again.)

<//>

Lucifer leans forward on his throne, head tilted just so, to make sure the light of the flames bounces properly off his cheekbones. 

“Do you love him?”

Crowley doesn’t think of warm hands and warmer mouths.

“I _remember_ him. I remember what loving him _cost me.”_

(He thinks of stars collapsing instead.)

By some miracle, Lucifer is placated. It might be for the very first time.

(What the devil is She playing at?)

<//>

Crowley isn’t sure which is the worse torment, being in Hell without Aziraphale, or walking the earth with him so close and yet so far. 

<//>

(Is this part of your plan?)

<//>

He takes it back. Being friends by Arrangement is the worst chaos of a feeling ever.

(But it’s also the best.)

At least they can make up for all the talking they didn’t do before.

<//>

It takes everything in him not to grab Aziraphale by his frilled lapels and kiss him senseless in France. But he knows it wouldn’t go over well. 

He has to keep telling himself that this isn’t _his_ Aziraphale.

(But it _is._ )

( _It is._ ) 

He’d do anything just to be allowed to stay at his side.

<//>

“Anthony?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that... I’ll get used to it. What does the ‘J’ stand for?” 

“It’s, uh, just a ‘J’, really...”

(Lies told in a temple should burn more, shouldn't they?)

(It’s a ‘J’ to remind him that angels have free will too.)

Their hands brush as he hands over the rescued books, and there’s _shock_ in it, shock at the tendril of love interwoven. 

(It’s enough to sustain Crowley for another 6000 years, the whisper of love in Aziraphale’s touch.)

(He wishes he could craft another hundred nebulae the exact shade of Aziraphale’s eyes in that moment, but his angel isn’t the only one who’s been diminished.)

(Falling made them all _less._ )

<//>

“Anywhere you want, anywhere at all,” he offers.

But what he means is _please, choose me._

<//>

And suddenly, he’s out of time. 

The End is upon them, Hell is onto him, and _Aziraphale doesn’t remember him._

“The forces of Hell have figured out that it was my fault. But! We could run away together! Alpha Centauri, lots of spare planets up there, no one would even notice us!”

( _Choose me,_ his soul screams, _just for once, choose me!_ )

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. Look, I’m quite sure if I can just, _reach the right people,_ that I can get all this sorted out...”

“There aren’t any _right people,”_ Crowley says, dumbfounded, getting right up in his face, “There’s just _God,_ moving in 'mysterious ways’ and _not talking to any of us!”_

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.”

“That- _won’t happen..._ You’re so clever, how can somebody as clever as you be _so_ stupid?” Crowley asks, aghast.

“... I forgive you.”

(So that’s it, then.)

(After 6000 years, Crowley snaps.)

(What reason is there to keep holding on?)

(Maybe he’s been deluding himself this whole time...)

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m _leaving!_ And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even _think_ about you!”

<//>

(Well, he thought he’d snapped at the time.)

(When he really snaps is screaming at both Heaven and Hell on the floor of a burning bookshop.)

(He imagines this is what Falling felt like for the rest of them.)

<//>

"I lost my best friend…"

"I'm so sorry to hear it…"

(Something in Aziraphale shifts, to see that Crowley didn't leave without him after all, that Crowley _stayed_.)

<//>

After the failed End, things are almost too quiet in comparison. 

Aziraphale wears his own face again.

Perhaps it’s for the best that he doesn’t remember, in this moment. 

(Because the symbolism would break his heart.)

(God knows it would break Crowley's, if he allowed himself to think about it.)

They stay together, without going off anywhere, just living their lives, but _together._

<//>

The first time Aziraphale leans toward Crowley with the intent to kiss, there is no other word to describe Crowley's posture but _nervous._

"Is this alright?" Aziraphale whispers.

"It is. God, Aziraphale, it _is._ It's just, I'm not sure what will happen..." Crowley confesses. 

Aziraphale smiles at him indulgently.

(Because he doesn't know.)

(Maybe Crowley should stop him...)

(But he doesn't have the heart to seriously consider it.)

(It feels like he's been waiting an eternity for Aziraphale to choose _him._ )

When Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s, it’s soft, no surging or toppling him over onto his back like the _first_ first time. Aziraphale kisses like he doesn’t know that souls are for _pouring,_ but it’s more than Crowley ever expected to feel again. 

“I... Crowley, have- ... Have we done this before?” Aziraphale asks him, confusion writ hard upon his face, “I would remember if we had done _this..._ but...”

“But not if She took it away...” Crowley whispers, his eyes still closed.

(Were they told not to speak of it, or was that just his own self preservation? It’s not like _any_ angel would have ever believed a _demon_ about it...) 

(But now...)

(But _now..._ )

“What do you mean _She took it away?”_

Crowley opens his eyes. 

“I mean... In the beginning, there was _us._ Before.” 

“Us?” Aziraphale asks, a slow terror dawning over his face, “Before _what?”_

“Before I questioned!” Crowley answers, his voice too loud compared to Aziraphale’s. “Before the Fall, before the humans, before time itself was set spinning, there was _us.”_

“Us,” Aziraphale echos, brushing his fingers over his own lips. “I... I think I believe you... But why-”

“Oh, come off it, angel,” Crowley practically jeers, his emotions spinning completely out of control. 

(Healer, heal thyself.)

“It was part of our _punishment,_ to remember. Think about it. You know all demons were angels before the Fall, but do you remember _any_ of us? Do you remember me? I _know_ you don’t,” Crowley spits out, so close to breaking that he risks complete and utter ruin if this goes badly.

Aziraphale looks terrified as Crowley is speaking, but instead of answering, he kisses him again.

And this time he pours his heart into it, no holding back. 

It _burns._

(But god, Crowley could die happily this way.) 

“Is... Is it supposed to feel like this?” Aziraphale pulls back, tears in his eyes. 

“You were the angel of fire, you’ve always burned a little...”

“Of fire?... No I wasn’t. I’ve always just been, _me,”_ he frowns.

“No...you weren’t...” Crowley insists softly, “Well, you’ve always been _you,_ but you used to be _more,_ just like I did...”

Aziraphale shakes his head, like he can’t fathom the concept of everything he’s finding out, everything that’s been _taken from them._

“Wait. The angel of fire’s name was _Jehoel,”_ Aziraphale says hesitantly, like he isn’t sure if he wants Crowley to be lying to him after all or not.

“Yes. But you chose to be Aziraphale instead,” Crowley makes a helpless motion with one shoulder.

“I _chose?_ I... I don’t remember...” Aziraphale adds, sounding frustrated. 

“I know...”

“Crowley, what were _you_ the angel of?” Aziraphale asks, as if he’s just now realizing how strange it is that he’s never asked before. 

Then it’s Crowley’s turn to shake his head. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Leave it, angel.”

“You can’t tell me things like this and then not answer my questions, Crowley,” Aziraphale chastises him, starting to look distraught. 

Crowley gives him a horrified look, just now realizing what Aziraphale is dancing along the edge of, by _questioning._

Aziraphale’s face softens, but he still looks hurt, confused. Not by Crowley, but by the situation. “Why would I be diminished? I didn’t fall... Did?... Did _She_ change me? From Jehoel into-” Aziraphale pauses and motions at himself.

Crowley jumps into the pause and says, “No, angel. You _chose_ to be Aziraphale, long before the Fall, ages beforehand. That wasn’t what diminished you, that was...that was something She did later...” Crowley trails off. 

(He’s not going to say the words _ineffable plan._ Not here, not now.)

Aziraphale stills. It’s not the peaceful stillness that angels are supposed to be known for. It’s an angry, teetering stillness. One that when it tips over, promises _violence._

“Crowley, what was your name, before you fell?”

(Damn his clever angel.)

Crowley hesitates, swallowing hard as his throat threatens to close up. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats himself, insistent, _“What was your name?”_

With a trembling hand, Crowley reaches up and cups his angel’s cheek. 

“It was Raphael.”

Aziraphale’s face looks like it’s about to shatter. 

Crowley is ready to grab the pieces of him, if need be.

(Always Aziraphale.)

And then the anger comes flooding forward. 

“How _dare_ She.”

“Aziraphale...” Crowley whispers, not sure if he can or should or even really wants to calm him down... 

“How _dare She,”_ Aziraphale repeats, his anger far beyond righteous.

(Words like _primal_ were invented for this.)

Before Crowley can say anything else in return, the two of them are suddenly bathed in a blue-white light from above. He freezes in terror, eyes going wider than they ever have before. 

But Aziraphale, his clever, beautiful Aziraphale, looks up, and _rages._

_“Give it back.”_

Crowley’s heart skips a beat. 

**“Aziraphale, you don’t know what-”**

_“Give it back!”_ Aziraphale _cuts off_ the Almighty, _“He_ may not have known the consequences, but _I do._ Give me back my memories,” he demands as angry tears start to pour down his face. 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley says helplessly, his whole corporation starting to shake and tremble. 

“You said we had a choice, but you took mine away from me,” Aziraphale admonishes God, “You had already taken my memory of him away when you told us of the Fall. That’s not a choice, that’s _a lie.”_

The sadness clinging to the air around them is so strong that Crowley feels like he’s choking on it. 

When no response is forthcoming, Aziraphale turns his face down and away from the light of God. 

Sparks and embers begin to swirl upward out of him, like a log disturbed on a campfire.

(This is what happens when you kick the angel of fire too many times, Crowley thinks a tad hysterically.)

Aziraphale falls to his knees, crying out in pain. 

Crowley catches him, eases him down while they cling to each other tightly.

(God, it burns.)

**(It was always going to.)**

The sparks intensify, until Aziraphale is consumed, until they _both_ are.

But Crowley doesn’t let go.

This is their choice.

An informed one this time.

(We should be _the same._ )

(The same light.)

(The same _fire._ )

(The other angles do not feel like they do.)

(He yields instantly.)

(Willingly.)

(He remembers the stars.)

(So that’s it, then.)

  


(At the center of a black hole is love.)

  


Falling made them all _less,_ but somehow, it makes Aziraphale _more._ And Crowley is swept along with him, their fetters removed, shackles broken, fire and stars at their fingertips again, now that they’re on the same side.

(God, show me your _Great Plan..._ )

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


After She leaves, it’s silent for a long time while they _exist._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Raphael?...”

“That’s not my name anymore, angel...”

A thoughtful hum. 

“But I remain _Aziraphale_ yet... I think, because _I chose_ that, She cannot take it away from me...”

Crowley lifts his angel’s hand, presses a kiss onto the back of it. They’re still laying on the floor, all pretenses and trappings of humanity stripped away, _burned away_ by the Almighty’s light. 

“Do you want to call me ‘Raphael’ again?” he asks, quiet, accepting of any outcome. 

_“Aziraphale_ is my rebellion, but ‘Crowley’ is yours, my dear. I’m not going to be offended if you want to keep it. I’ve grown rather fond of it, actually.”

“Ok, angel. Ok,” Crowley finds himself smiling. 

“You know, I’m not an angel anymore...” Aziraphale points out.

“That’s not what I mean by it,” Crowley assures him, still smiling.

Aziraphale smiles back.

_“I know.”_

When Aziraphale rolls them over, hovering over Crowley, the intent to kiss him for eternity written plainly on his face, it takes Crowley’s breath away to see his new form. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, a benediction now, no longer a plea, “Your wings are red...”

A nod. 

“Yes, I thought we’d go well together that way, without being _too_ matchy-matchy.”

Crowley is laughing when Aziraphale finally leans down to kiss him, unable to resist tasting the joy on his lips for a moment longer. 

Kissing on the floor of Crowley’s flat for a year and a day may seem excessive, but it’s not.

(It’s not.)

**( _It’s really not._ )**

They used to kiss for decades, they used to kiss for centuries when they could get away with it.

(Plus, in Heaven, there was nothing else all that interesting to do but steal each other’s atoms and tuck them up close inside their hearts.)

But Aziraphale pulls back after only a year, and Crowley whines in protest, following his lips upward. 

“I’ve been thinking...”

“Well I haven’t, I’ve been _kissing you,”_ Crowley complains ineffectually, already feeling the stretch of their souls separating and settling back into their own corporations like taffy pulled too far apart. 

Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him. 

“Some of us can do more than one thing at once, my dear.”

“Not all of us are Cherubim of unfathomable power, angel,” Crowley grumbles. 

“Are you, _overwhelmed?...”_ Aziraphale grins, leaning down close again.

“By you?” Crowley says, wrapping all his limbs around Aziraphale like a limpet, “Always.”

He tucks his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and just, _holds on tight._

“Oh darling... I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, these 6000 years,” Aziraphale cups the back of his head, sliding fingers up into his red locks.

(In his true form, Crowley’s hair was like a tumble of lava, like a curtain of a million red stars burning and twisting around each other at once.)

(Aziraphale could spend eternity running his fingers through it.)

“Don’t get all mushy on me now, angel,” Crowley says, his voice cracking. 

“I make no promises...”

Crowley squeezes him extra tightly for a moment, before settling back against the floor again. 

“What have you been thinking about?” Crowley asks, knowing they really aren’t going to be able to just kiss for the next century, as much as they both might want to. 

“Us. And Heaven, and Hell,” Aziraphale tells him, growing pensive. 

“We... Surely, we must have a little more time?” Crowley says.

“If we didn’t, would you have wanted to spend it any other way?” Aziraphale asks, giving him a quick peck on the lips. 

“...No,” Crowley admits, “Is this it, then? Can...can you feel them coming for us, somehow?” 

“Not as of yet,” Aziraphale shakes his head, “But it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

“What are we going to do?”

“Well, the way I see it, we have two options. We could run, but, it couldn’t be to any place within Creation. She’d still be able to find us, no matter how distant the nebula...” Aziraphale tells him sadly.

“The only thing outside Creation is the Void, Aziraphale, we can’t go there. No one but God Herself has ever survived it. There’s no stars, no space there, just _nothingness...”_

“And yet, every constellation brought into existence overwrites it...” Aziraphale points out. “Also, it has come to my attention recently that _omission_ is not the only lie being perpetuated upon us by the Almighty.”

“Even if we _could_ survive it,” Crowley says, scrubbing a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose, “Honestly? That kind of sounds like the easy way out now, running from our problems... _And,_ there’s no books in the Void, no Bentley’s... What’s option two?” 

“Well, in order to fix all this, truly _fix it..._ I believe we will have to kill Lucifer.”

“...” Crowley blinks at him. “Angel, my darling, I think the Fall may have gone to your head a bit...” he suggests calmly, eyes worried. 

“I don’t mean to rule Hell, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Aziraphale tuts, because it’s very obviously what Crowley is thinking. “What I mean is to end the War, but not by _fighting_ it. I don’t think I need to explain to you the impossibility of getting Lucifer to _call things off_ on his end _._ But if it wasn’t _his call_ to make anymore...”

“Exactly how is that not ruling Hell, again?” Crowley asks.

“Because once Lucifer is gone, we will tear it down.”

Crowley surges forward, sits up so that he and Aziraphale are on a more even level. 

“Aziraphale, you cannot set loose _the hoards of Hell_ upon the earth. I didn’t think I needed to explain to you how completely awful I am at being a demon, I am, literally _the worst_ demon in existence, going off evilness, you _cannot_ base the rest of them on _me._ Granted, some of them are only half bad, but, there are some beings down there that would like nothing better than to reek havoc and terror on humanity for the rest of their days...”

“That is why they would not be _let loose,_ they would be watched, _retrained,_ so to speak, by me.”

Crowley doesn’t question his ability to do it.

As a one of the Cherubim, protecting the Garden, and by association the entire earth, had been Aziraphale’s _job._

“That’s a...rather hands-on approach...” Crowley says, jaw hanging open. 

“Well, _someone_ needs to take one. Humans get a second chance, why shouldn’t demons? This is getting rather ridiculous, don’t you think?” Aziraphale counters. “Why do we have to serve Satan just because we refuse to serve Her?”

(How do you refuse to serve a plan you don’t understand?)

“Thinking you’re better than your superiors is a dangerous game to play, Aziraphale, he’s _the Morning Star,”_ Crowley says, shaking his head.

Aziraphale reaches out and cups Crowley’s cheek, stroking a sword-callused thumb over it.

“How many suns have you created?”

Crowley’s eyes go wide.

“That’s different...”

“What are the odds,” Aziraphale says slowly, so that it has plenty of time to sink in, “That Lucifer is _diminished_ as well?”

(Falling made them _all_ less.)

“Ok... But. Even if we _could_ kill him, that doesn’t guarantee that _She’ll_ stand down, Aziraphale, She could still set Heaven upon us and try to wipe us all out.”

“She could... But worst case scenario? The absolute, most final, irreversible scenario? Is that She undoes us completely, erases us from existence. And my dear, I think, if She really meant for it to end like that? That She would have already done it. But She didn’t. She let me Fall instead...”

“Fuck... Are we really doing this?”

“If we want to stay together, here, on earth, I think we have to. Besides, even if we had another 6000 years of being ‘left alone’, it wouldn’t be enough. I demand eternity at your side,” Aziraphale declares to him passionately. 

(And sometimes, that’s all there is to it.)

<//>

(In the Beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.)

(And God looked upon Her creation, and saw that it was good.) 

(Who judges, when God is created?)

(What good is just beginning over?)

<//>

Having watched Crowley go in through the front door so many times, Aziraphale certainly knows the way into Hell. 

He does not saunter in. 

He unfurls his wings, all four of them, blood red and shimmering, and calls up an armor he has not worn since before the invention of man.

The front doors explode inward under a single touch of his finger. 

Demons scream and scurry away from his _presence_ before even having a chance to see him _._

“Lucifer!” Aziraphale calls out, making his intentions clear, “Where is he?”

He meets no resistance, absolutely _none,_ until he gets to the little throne Beelzebub has set up outside the Dark Counsel’s chambers. 

And even then, it’s hardly _resistance._

“What’s going on here?” they bluff. 

But Aziraphale can feel their fear.

(No other Cherubim has ever _Fallen._ )

(And the only Seraph who did, well...)

“You have _taken_ him, and I intend to get him _back,”_ Aziraphale seethes. 

(He doesn’t need to elaborate, because now he knows that demons _know._ )

(Know what Crowley is to him.)

(Know what _they_ were.)

(Know what was _done_ to them.)

Beelzebub steps aside, even as they say, “He’s not here, we don’t have him...”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we.”

Aziraphale floats up the steps to the chamber’s doors, rolling his eyes internally at the ridiculous figures and symbols carved into it. 

(They mean nothing to a being of his power.)

For these doors, he uses his whole palm. They _dissolve_ with a boom under his power, leaving a gaping space that four of Aziraphale could walk though. 

(He manages to fill it up though.) 

The Lords of Hell turn from their various debaucheries and hiss at him, drawing their weapons, leaping toward him with murderous intent simply for daring to be an intruder. 

Aziraphale raises both arms out in front of him and snaps his fingers, wiping all of them out of existence at once. 

There’s a strangled sounding noise from behind him, probably Beelzebub.

(Good, let them bear witness to what’s about to happen here.)

Even the Dark Counsel's playthings are erased, leaving Lucifer and Aziraphale alone.

(Small mercies.)

Lucifer stands up from his throne. 

He tilts his head, hands clasped behind his back like he’s unfamiliar with taking any pose but _condescension._

“If this is supposed to be an... _audition,_ you’ve got my attention-” Lucifer squints at him, tilts his head the other direction, _“...Aziraphale.”_

“Nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale says at the same moment that Crowley, in snake form, jumps quick as lightning from his hiding place _under the throne._

He wraps himself around Lucifer’s hands and middle, like a living restraint, keeping his arms behind his back. 

“How _dare-_ You insolent piece of scum!” Lucifer rages. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I believe,” Aziraphale says as he summons his sword to him, his _old_ sword, the broad one that takes two angelic hands to wield and could cut down a dozen foes at once, “The technical term is an execution.”

Lucifer laughs, incandescent rage still pouring off of him in waves.

“You think I need my hands to fight you? You think this very realm itself doesn’t obey my commands?” Lucifer sneers. 

And then everything is on fire. 

The very air itself is made of flame, and not just of regular hellfire either. This is _The Fires of Hell,_ that which destroys even demons, that which torments the very _souls_ of humans, long after their bodies are gone.

There are multiple screams from the doorway, where the gathering watchers have to suddenly reel backward for their lives. 

Lucifer laughs maniacally for a long minute, which, that alone would make an observer question his sanity, forget everything else... 

Eventually, he stops laughing though, and wills The Fires away. 

“You know, you always were the _brightest star,”_ Aziraphale says, causing Lucifer’s jaw to drop, “But not exactly the brightest _pupil.”_

“What!? How!?”

“I’m _The Angel of Fire,_ idiot,” Aziraphale says primly, then takes the Morning Star’s head clean off with one swing. 

(There are perks to being soul bound to the _former_ Angel of Fire.)

(And Crowley likes this whole immunity to fire thing too.) 

“Don’t forget hisss heart,” Crowley stays holding on tight, even through the pain of being in contact with Lucifer’s bare skin this whole time. 

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, stepping forward, “I’d not forget a thing like that. Are you out of the way?”

Lucifer’s corporation is still standing, still struggling, even as his head comes to rest a short ways away. 

“Yesss, jussst do it!”

“You fools, we’re on the same side now!” the head screams at them, blood already matting his golden locks. 

Aziraphale looks Lucifer directly in his decapitated eyes as he says, “We’re on our own side.” 

Then he pierces the blade through the Morning Star’s chest. 

What’s left of Lucifer falls to its knees.

“Leave the blade in, he’sss not dead yet!” Crowley warns, tightening even further against the thrashing. 

“Oh? What was your first guess?” Aziraphale says, motioning to the head that’s begun screaming continually. 

“Jussst end it already!” Crowley urges him.

“What else do you want me to do? I can’t take the sword out again!” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t know, angel, _killing_ isssn’t my department,” Crowley hisses, “Jussst, do _sssomething!”_

Aziraphale looks between the severed head and Crowley, back and forth, until suddenly an idea flashes across his face. 

(To err is to _exist._ )

(To be inspired is divine.) 

He drops to his knees, placing his hands on Lucifer’s forehead, and calls up all the power he possesses within him. 

(How many times did he see Crowley do this?)

(How hard can it be to do the reverse?)

(What’s the opposite of _healing?_ )

Light bursts out of Aziraphale and Crowley both. 

The face of the Morning Star crumbles.

The screaming stops.

His corporation is crushed within Crowley’s coils, leaving only ash behind to float on the super heated air. 

It’s dead silent in the throne room of Hell.

Aziraphale grimaces as he wipes the ash off his hands. 

Crowley slithers over to him, climbing right up him and draping himself around his angel’s shoulders. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, running soothing hands along Crowley’s scales. 

“Yesss. It _ssstingsss,_ but I’ll live.”

“Not that I don’t love having you all over me, dear, but perhaps it would help to transform back?” Aziraphale points out as he climbs the few stairs up to Hell’s throne. 

“Perhapsss,” Crowley says, but makes no move to disentangle himself. 

Aziraphale smiles to himself as he turns around and sits on the throne. 

A mass of demons, lead by Beelzebub and Dagon, are all gathered at the doorway, watching in shock. 

“Right,” Dagon seems to come to her senses first, before any of the others, “We’re under new management, then.”

And she takes a knee. 

All of Hell is quick to follow. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Aziraphale says, his voice carrying to all of the corridors of Hell.

Before he can continue though, Crowley turns back into his human corporation, right there on his lap. 

Aziraphale quickly steadies him, to keep him from falling to the ground. 

“Really, Crowley?”

“What? You look just as powerful with me sprawled over your lap in this form,” he grins, flashing some fang. 

“Lord have mercy...” Aziraphale sighs.

The demon hoard gasps. 

“Listen, everyone,” Aziraphale says, getting back on track, “The War is off. There will be no more evil for evil’s sake, no more temptations, no more discord and discontent. Hell, is hereby _closed.”_

Before the shocked exclamations can even begin to rise from the crowd, a blue light envelopes them all.

Not the solitary spotlight of God’s attention, but a diffuse glow that builds and builds until it’s _blinding,_ until there’s nothing left in all of existence but _The Light._

  


**(And God looked upon Her creation, and saw that it was good.)**

  


Crowley and Aziraphale come back to consciousness clinging to each other tightly. They’re hovering in the clouds, with every angel and demon accounted for behind them. This is the Heaven Aziraphale remembers from before, just majestic clouds and _light_ and gentle breezes, not the corporate police state the angels turned it into after being left to their own devices for too long... 

“What’s happening?” Crowley whispers, looking around as everyone else looks back at them with the same confusion. 

“Judgement,” Gabriel says, his face determined. 

**“Um, not quite.”**

Every being looks upward at the source of the voice like they normally would. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide though, and he forcibly grabs Crowley’s head and turns it back down, covering him with one of his wings.

**“It’s ok, Aziraphale, I’m going to tone it down for you guys.”**

It’s not until God has fully descended and Her Majesty has been tucked away enough that She’s no longer glowing, that Aziraphale releases his protective stance over Crowley. 

(Even as angels, very few types of them were made to withstand God’s presence.)

(Archangels were not one of them.)

“Let me just start by saying that I am, so, _so glad_ that you stayed,” God smiles at them kindly, almost _proudly._

Crowley leans over to Aziraphale and whispers, “Is it just me, or does she look exactly like that chick from Star Wars?”

“Star Wars? What are you- Crowley, _focus,”_ Aziraphale hisses at him. 

God folds her hands, as if in a mockery of waiting patiently. 

“Oh, uh, were you talking to _us?...”_ Crowley looks around and then winces, pretty much preparing to be smote right there. 

“Were any of the rest of you thinking of running off to the Void?” She asks, giving them a wry smile. 

There’s a murmur through the assembled masses behind them. 

But no one speaks up. 

(No one has a single, solitary clue as to what’s going on.) 

“I wanted to thank you, too,” God says, “For taking care of Lucifer. I just couldn’t finish things up knowing he’d still be around to terrorize the humans afterward.”

“You’re welcome?” Aziraphale says, incredibly confused. 

“Wait, so this _is_ The End, then?” Crowley asks. 

“For some of us,” She answers. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment of you taking care of ‘The Enemy’ for me, but, guys, come on. The opposite of _Life_ , isn’t _evil,”_ She tells them, “Lucifer may have been a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t my other half. He wasn’t the first one to screw up,” She assures them. 

“I... I don’t understand...” Aziraphale says. 

“Let’s just say, that when we went through our crucible, we were too afraid to stay... It, _changed us,_ though... And we regretted it...” She sighs, Her gaze going out past them, out into the distance. 

Crowley turns around, some unknown danger pricking at his senses. 

Behind them, moving slowly but steadily toward the crowd, is Death.

God lifts Her arms, making a parting motion in front of Her. The angels and demons are separated like the Red Sea, with Heaven and Hell mixed on both sides. 

Aziraphale tugs on Crowley’s arm, pulling him with him out from in front of God.

“This is not our fight, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers to him. 

Crowley steals a look at God’s face. 

She doesn’t look determined or angry or even riled up. She looks _sad._

“Are you sure this is going to be _a fight?”_ Crowley asks him, asks Her, asks for anyone who’s listening.

“It's ok,” God assures them all, “I wasn’t sure if it would be this way or not, you know, with free will involved and all, but I’m glad it is. I’m glad we get a chance to fix our mistake. You all know enough now to hold on to your existences yourselves, without my help. My Son will shield the humans, but the rest of you are kind of going to be on your own,” She adds, like She really does regret that, but there’s nothing to be done for it. 

As Death approaches, the group of angels and demons closes up behind him, silently and unanimously, as if by a higher power’s will. 

“Oh my God, you’re just going to _let_ him?...” Crowley blurts, cringing at how it comes out halfway through. He pushes on though. “If you’re just going to _abandon_ us, then _what was the point?”_

God takes her gaze off the approaching finality and addresses Crowley with glowing, starlit eyes. 

“The _point_ was, to teach you that dichotomy _is a trap._ Don’t fall into it,” She says, turning to look back at Death, “Or you’ll end up just like us...”

Death stops in front of her, reaching out with his free hand that isn’t occupied with his scythe. 

God reaches up, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“I’m so tired,” She whispers, tears starting to fill Her eyes. 

_“I know,”_ Death whispers back. 

And then he runs her through. 

Thousands of angels and demons cry out in sadness, cry out in _agony_ at _the loss of Her Grace,_ all at once. 

Death holds God as She dissolves into a million points of light in his arms. 

(Who judges, when God is created?)

(Who judges, when God is killed?) 

(Who is created, by good existing?)

( _Why?_ )

After She is gone, Death drops his scythe. 

He tips his face upward. 

He dissolves into a million points of darkness.

And the Heavens _shake._

“Uh, we need to get out of here,” Gabriel says, panicking. 

“It’s too late for that,” Crowley overrides him, “Everyone! Form up!” he yells, waving his arms just a touch desperately.

“Yes, quickly now, stay together!” Aziraphale adds, shedding his human form as existence starts to tremble and tear around them. 

Everyone copies him, wings and eyes and claws and _eyes_ everywhere as they huddle together, angels and demons, creations of God and abandoned of God, all together, all at once.

The Seraphim and Cherubim form a protective circle around the rest of them as the lesser start screaming, feeling their _selves_ being eroded away. Those protecting turn up their power, as high as they can, willing with every miraculous allotment ever given them, for it to _be ok._

Aziraphale’s fire-red wings are the only point of color on the outer circle of white.

Crowley slips inside his wings, the sacred ones used to cover himself, and he presses their lips together, one last time. 

The Void beckons. 

(At the center of a black hole is love.)

Nothingness begins to creep in between the angels’ wings. 

(At the center of a black hole…) 

Tears flow freely down Crowley’s face as he and Aziraphale kiss and kiss, their atoms sliding in between one another’s, the light of their souls the only thing they can see behind their eyelids. 

(At the center…)

Something wild and desperate at the very core of Crowley _clicks._

Wonders.

_Questions._

“There’s another option,” he suddenly says, breaking away from Aziraphale’s mouth.

“What?”

Crowley looks around quickly, not leaving the safety of Aziraphale’s arms and wings.

“Gabriel!” he yells, catching his former co-worker’s attention from across the huddled masses, “The _Pillars!”_

The fear on Gabriel’s face flickers as it competes with dawning comprehension.

“Go!” Crowley waves at him, pointing to the other side of their angelic shield. 

“Crowley, _what are you doing?”_ Aziraphale asks as Crowley turns back to him, sticking his hands through the gap on either side of the Cherubim’s shoulders and _out into the Void._

“If this existence is going to insist on unraveling,” Crowley hisses, because fuck, that hurts, “Then we’ll just _build a new one.”_

And stars explode from his finger tips. 

Crowley leans in and kisses his other half again, and a hundred blue nebulae the exact shade of Aziraphale’s eyes are born in succession. 

(Suns burn.)

(Planets spin.)

(Galaxies twinkle in the sky.)

(The universe is a lot smaller afterward, but at the center of it all, is love.) 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


<//>

“What now?” the humans ask.

The Son of Man looks up at the night sky, filled to the brim with new constellations that have never been seen before, never even been dreamed of, and a knowing smile spreads over his face.

“Now we’re free.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr again now, phlintandsteel-ao3 if you want to say hi :)


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